


Leaving Blood Behind

by ABookAndACoffee



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Meat on a stick, Reunions, post-Empire of Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/ABookAndACoffee
Summary: Rowan cares for Aelin and gives her her first meal after she escapes from Maeve."Her clothing is in tatters, her feet bare and bloody, her hair hanging in dirty, sweaty strands. Rowan has just enough time to catch her before she falls. The relief apparent on her face is all he sees before her knees give out. When he catches her he is surprised by the lightness, the faint impression that her body leaves on his arms. His muscles are barely strained as he carries her to his tent, lays her on his Spartan bedding. Surveying her, he reassures himself that she is alive, that she will survive the injuries she has been dealt, and he goes to work."





	Leaving Blood Behind

When Aelin stumbles into their camp just before dawn, Rowan knows she has only begun to be rescued. 

He is woken by the sound of leaves under foot, breaking branches. He jumps up, immediately alert, though the irregular footfalls confuse him. Who would be sneaking up on their camp so noisily, and be so clumsy about it? 

When Rowan sees her, his is afraid that he is still asleep. But then she whispers his name. 

Her clothing is in tatters, her feet bare and bloody, her hair hanging in dirty, sweaty strands. Rowan has just enough time to catch her before she falls. The relief apparent on her face is all he sees before her knees give out. When he catches her he is surprised by the lightness, the faint impression that her body leaves on his arms. His muscles are barely strained as he carries her to his tent, lays her on his Spartan bedding. Surveying her, he reassures himself that she is alive, that she will survive the injuries she has been dealt, and he goes to work. 

For days, Aelin sleeps. 

They have spent weeks searching for her. Maeve left so few clues as to her whereabouts that he doubted even his own ability to track Aelin, to find where the end of this tie between them would lead. He has images in his head still of how he will find and rescue her, his mate, he wakes in the night, streams of blood dominating his dreams. He tries to erase them and recognize his own folly at assuming she would not find a way to rescue herself, and for the first time in his life, Rowan gives thanks to whatever gods and goddesses watch over them. That he was led to this place, at this time, to be there at the very moment Aelin needed to be caught. 

In the days that pass, they travel, taking turns carrying Aelin away from where they know Maeve rests, surely full of fury and vengeance. 

As she heals, Rowan and the others wait, hoping, praying to whatever gods might listen, that Aelin is not completely broken. That she will wake, fractured but intact. They tend to her wounds, Rowan forcing himself to track the wounds as if they are just another problem to be solved, rather than evidence of what she suffered. 

When it becomes too much, Lorcan takes over, changing bandages in penance. If only they had known what this road would lead to. If only either of them had known how their choices would harm the ones they love. As Gavriel keeps guard, Elide brings food, clean clothing, without saying a word. Lorcan searches her face for some sign of understanding or forgiveness, but she refuses. He hopes that one day, she will understand; it was all for her. 

Five days later, when they have carried Aelin and their few belongings over the miles they can manage, she wakes. 

She asks for Rowan. 

When he pushes aside the panel of fabric at the opening of her tent, the only shelter any of them have been afforded, she refuses to look at him. At first, he wonders if she is whole. If she is able to recognize him as the one who had promised her the world, a future. 

When she finally turns to him, Rowan is surprised to find the familiar fire behind her eyes. The wounds she has sustained have failed to take anything of substance from her, but he wonders if she will forgive him for his failure to stop Maeve. 

When she reaches out to him, palms open and waiting, he knows they will heal. 

It has been weeks, days, hours, minutes since he lost her, and Rowan has calculated every one of them. He won’t tell her how often he woke in the night, what they have had to do to find themselves in the place where her persistent and faltering steps brought her to them; her struggle, he knows without being told, was infinitely more demanding, and one day she will tell him about it. But he will not, for all the gold in Erilea, ask her about it before she is ready. 

She pushes herself up to a sitting position, the effort clear on her face. “How long has it been?” she asks, and Rowan wants to cradle her for her persistence, but holds himself apart from her, allowing her muscles to habituate themselves to the weight of her own body. 

“46 days,” he answers. “8 hours, and 24 minutes, until we found you.” He blanches. “Until you came to us.” There is a part of him that wants to deny that he has failed her in any way, and another part of him that strains to recognize that she has freed herself. For all their work, all their sacrifice, Aelin stumbled into their camp. There was no grand entrance by Rowan, Lorcan, Elide, or Gavriel; they found themselves in the right place at the right time to catch her when she was ready to fall, after weeks of fight. 

And yet he knows that she has infinitely more in her. Rowan looks at Aelin, and sees the lineage that makes her capable, makes her the one who must end it all. For the sake of Erilea. 

She just nods, settling herself back on her elbows. “And where is everyone else? Manon? Lysandra?” Rowan reassures her that everyone is playing their roles, ensuring that her plans will be carried through. 

“What do you need?” he asks after explaining how the fight moves forward. 

“I’m starved,” she says, and a small smile creeps across Rowan’s face despite himself. He stands to leave the tent, and as Aelin lowers herself to lie down, he hears her struggle to withhold a groan. His smile disappears, and he remembers his vow to pay Maeve back for every minute. 

He brings her a plate of rations, helping her into a comfortable position. 

Rowan tries to hold back a chuckle as Aelin eats; it is only meat cooked over a fire and lacking any seasoning, but she eats it with as much enthusiasm as if it were chocolate cake. He places a hand on her back as she hunches over the plate. “At least breathe between your bites, maybe?” 

She looks up at him, blinking. Her hand is fisted tightly around her fork as if someone might take it away from her before she can clean her plate. Seeing his eyes travel from her face to her fist, Aelin looks back down at the food. 

“Did they feed you? Did you eat enough, while you were in there?” 

“Enough,” she answers shortly. She looks him squarely in the face, daring him to challenge her. Daring him to assert that she has been at a disadvantage. When he fails to question her further, Aelin turns back to her plate and Rowan waits for her to finish, the only sounds their breathing and the scraping of silverware over the metal plate. 

Her shoulderblades come through her thin shift with more definition than they used to, but Rowan files away this fact for later. Perhaps, if they get her far enough away from here, with enough time, he won’t have to return to this image. He won’t have to think about how she has suffered, in so many ways. 

He grapples for any other needs she may have, wanting to assist while not crowding her. Her independence is as valuable to her as it is to him, and the fact of her injury does not lessen that. “Do you need anything else? New clothing, anything for your pain?” Rowan asks. He will go wherever he needs, spend whatever he has, to make sure that she is ok. 

Aelin shakes her head. “The pain is less. I’ll take whatever clothing you have, when I’m done eating. But there is something else.” 

Rowan waits, wondering what she might have in mind; undoubtedly something else that could turn the tide of this war, something that she has been silently planning for ages. 

“I would like some of that meat you like. When we have time. When things are less…” she gestures around them, the tent they are in standing for the uncertainty of their existence. 

Rowan sits back. “Really?” 

Aelin nods. “When I was gone, it was all I could think about. They only came once a day, bringing food, unless Maeve wanted me.” She grimaces. “And I kept finding myself thinking about your stupid meat. Not cake, or chocolate, or anything like that. Just your stupid meat on a stick.” 

Rowan holds back a laugh as he nods in acquiescence. “It’s on the way. We’ll get some for you.” He is well aware that what she needs is not so much the sustenance as it is the connection to him. Pushing aside the sense that he has grown to rely on her, that her existence determines the happiness of his own, he steels himself. He rests a palm on Aelin’s arm, stilling her momentarily as she eats. 

“Where are we going now?” she asks. 

The last thing he wants to do is ask more of her, but there is no way around what they must do. 

“There is more to do, Aelin. I’m sorry, but we must continue. The gates threaten to open, and-“ Rowan stops when Aelin holds up a hand. The determination on her face is familiar, and he waits for each word. 

She answers, and what she says is no more surprising to him than if he had spoken himself. 

“Let’s get to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: at least breathe between your bites, maybe?
> 
> Comments appreciated! Come find me on [tumblr](http://abookandacoffee.tumblr.com/).


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